The Knock That Wouldn't Go Away

The knock came at 11:47 p.m.

Three sharp raps, quick and certain, like whoever was on the other side already knew I’d been awake, already knew I’d been listening to the quiet. I froze. The house had been utterly still until then, the kind of stillness that seeps into your bones, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional groan of wood settling in the cold. I hadn’t expected anyone—hadn’t wanted anyone.

Another knock followed, the same rhythm. Confident. Not hesitant, not lost-neighbor or kid-selling-candy late at night. My heart hammered.

I pushed the blanket off and stood, my bare feet cold against the hardwood. For a moment, I just stared at the door from across the room. The porch light was burned out, so the peephole showed nothing but darkness. Whoever it was stood beyond my sight, waiting.

“Who is it?” I called, sharper than I intended.

No answer. Just silence.

I should have ignored it. But silence draws you forward. It convinces you that you need to fill it, even if you know you’ll regret what comes next. I unlocked the deadbolt but kept the chain on, opening the door only a crack. Nothing. Just the porch, the dark, the empty street beyond.

Then I saw it. A small package on the mat. Plain cardboard. No tape. No address.

I hesitated, scanning the shadows for movement, for the sway of someone retreating down the sidewalk. Nothing stirred. The world looked untouched, as though the night itself hadn’t noticed the knock.

Slowly, I unlatched the chain and pulled the door wider. The air outside smelled damp, metallic, like rain on old iron. I bent down, hand trembling, and lifted the package. It was heavier than it looked. And warm.

I shut the door, locked it tight, and carried the box to the kitchen table. It was no bigger than a shoebox, the cardboard unsealed, folded neatly like it had been prepared for me. I pressed my palm against it again. Still warm.

Finally, I pried the flaps open.

Inside was an old-fashioned tape recorder, chunky black plastic with silver buttons. A cassette was already loaded, labeled in shaky handwriting: PLAY ME.

My laugh came out nervous, hollow. This didn’t feel like a prank. It felt deliberate.

I pressed play.

Static first. Then a click, and a voice.

“Hello. If you’re listening, then it’s begun.”

I froze. The voice was low, male, tired, like someone speaking from the far end of a sleepless night.

“You don’t know me,” it went on, “but I know you. I know you because I’ve been where you are—sitting in that kitchen, wondering why you opened the door, wondering why you didn’t just ignore the knock. But it doesn’t matter now. The important thing is that you listen. Because what’s coming, you’ll need to be ready for.”

The tape clicked, the speaker gathering himself.

“You’ll hear it soon. The second knock. Don’t open the door that time. Whatever you do—don’t.”

My chest tightened. I turned toward the front of the house, half-expecting to hear it right then, but the world remained still.

“Don’t try to leave, either,” the voice continued. “Once it’s chosen your door, there’s nowhere else to go. Just wait it out. It passes… eventually. If you survive, you’ll understand.”

The tape hissed and clicked to a stop.

I didn’t move. The silence stretched so thin I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

The second knock came at 12:14 a.m.

Softer this time. Almost polite.

Every instinct screamed at me to check the door, but the man’s words burned in my mind. Don’t open it.

I sat rigid in the chair, gripping the edge of the table. The knock came again, firmer now. Then again, louder, rattling the chain on the door.

“Go away,” I whispered.

As if it heard me, the knocking stopped.

Then came the breathing.

Long, slow exhalations pressed against the wood, heavy enough that I swore I saw the frame tremble. I clamped a hand over my mouth. The breathing shifted, low and guttural, like an animal trying to imitate a person. Then silence again.

Time passed, though I couldn’t tell how much. The clock ticked on, dragging the minutes toward morning. I wasn’t alone.

Shapes flickered at the edge of my vision, gone the moment I turned my head. Shadows moved in the black screen of the television. Whispers seeped from the walls, faint and unformed, as though the house itself had learned to murmur.

The third knock came at 2:37 a.m.

It didn’t sound like a hand. It was heavier, deeper, as though something massive leaned its weight against the door. The wood groaned. Pictures rattled on the walls.

Then a voice: “Let me in.”

It wasn’t outside.

It came from the tape recorder.

I stumbled back, slamming into the counter. The recorder had turned on by itself, the reel spinning though I hadn’t touched it.

“Let me in,” it repeated, warped and chewed by static.

I snatched it up, fumbling with the buttons, but the voice only grew louder, filling every corner of the kitchen.

Finally, in desperation, I hurled it to the floor. Plastic cracked. The tape hissed and went silent.

But the knocking did not stop.

The hours blurred into something unreal. The knocking came and went, sometimes soft, sometimes violent enough to shake the door in its frame. Shadows pressed against the windows, though no light shone outside. Once, I heard footsteps upstairs, though every room should have been empty.

I sat frozen at the table, eyes locked on the clock, each tick pulling me closer to morning.

At 6:01 a.m., the knocking ceased.

The silence returned—not heavy, but clean, as though the world had exhaled again. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, pale and ordinary.

On shaking legs, I crept to the door and opened it. The porch lay bare. The street outside was unchanged.

Only the broken tape recorder remained on the floor behind me, its cracked shell leaking tangled tape like spilled entrails. I picked it up. It was cold.

I didn’t sleep that next night. Or the one after.

But on the third night, at 11:47 p.m., I heard it again.

Three sharp knocks. Quick. Confident.

And this time, I wasn’t the one who answered.